


One Shots - Prompts

by itsallhushhush



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Dubious Consent, F/M, Molestation, Older Man/Younger Woman, One Shot Collection, Oral Sex, Pre-Teen Sansa, Prompt Fic, Pseudo-Incest, Teacher-Student Relationship, Uncle-Niece Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-17 23:05:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5888686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsallhushhush/pseuds/itsallhushhush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short Petyr/Sansa fics based on prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cemetery

Sansa went to pay tribute to her mother.

Petyr went to comfort her. 

\---

 

Fallen leaves and dried twigs crunch beneath their feet as they walk along a cobblestone pathway. Eve has set in, with a heavy fog that hangs in the air. The lantern he’s holding glows yellow, lighting their way. 

His eyes flick across headstones in varying shapes and sizes as they continue to make their way along the path. It would bother most—to walk among a cemetery this late at night—but he’s un-phased. Death has never bothered him. If anything, it meant he was that much closer to getting what he wanted. Death was opportunity.

It isn’t long before a large building, carved from stone, enters their sight. Two large pillars frame the doorway with the house name _Tully_ carved into the stone above it.

Entering the mausoleum his boots clack along the floor echoing in the dead silence. He places the lantern on one of the many tombs and Sansa’s form floats passed him, nearly silent on her feet.

She stands, gazing down at her mother’s tomb, clutching roses in her hands. Placing the roses atop the stone casket, Petyr can’t help think what a morbid sentiment it is—to cut flowers from their essence, only to bring them to a grave where they will wither and die in vain.

On his death bed there will be no such nonsense—only gold and jewels will adorn his grave.

“You’re bleeding, Lady Sansa,” he whispers over her shoulder. He can see where the rose thorns have pierced her delicate skin and he must resist the urge to pull her fingers to his mouth and kiss the crimson away.

“I still can’t believe she’s gone,” she says softly, her tone laden with melancholy.

“Nor can I,” he says in return, but he has mourned Catelyn long ago—long before her death. “But such is life, sweetling,” he says, turning her to face him now, her sad blue eyes so fetching in the dim glow of the lantern. “We must learn to accept the things we cannot change.”

He pulls a white silk cloth from his pocket and carefully cleans the blood from her hands.

“You are a part of her,” he says, his gaze meeting with hers, “and while you live, she lives on as well.”

“I am nothing like my mother, she was so strong,” Sansa says wistfully.

Petyr smiles gently and reaches up to take her face in his hands, thumbs resting against the line of her jaw. “Sweet child, you are right. You are nothing like your mother,” he says and her expression saddens further. “You are so much more than she could ever be.”

She looks up at him then, a flicker of surprise in her eyes.

“And your beauty,” he whispers, looking from her eyes to her soft lips, “is beyond compare.”

He leans in then, his mouth ghosting so close to hers that he can nearly taste her skin.

“Petyr,” she says softly, “You shouldn’t.”

“Why?” He speaks against her lips, waiting for a fair reason not to.

“What if Aunt Lysa finds out?”

That is not a fair reason.

He smiles then. A wicked knowing smile, as her hesitation is not from disinterest, but from the fear of being found out.

“Do not worry, sweet child, for the dead cannot tell secrets.”

And he presses his lips to hers.


	2. Taste

I write my name on the blackboard and turn to face the group of teenage girls who are looking my way—all eyes on me, just as I like. I can’t help but smirk. 

“I’m Mr. Baelish, and I will be your substitute today,” I tell them as I walk back to the desk at the front of the room—my throne of authority for the day. I can’t deny that I enjoy it. 

I stand by the desk and flip over the notes given by their teacher. “Seems you’ll be reading in your books today. Chapters 10 through to 12,” I say and they respond with a number of exasperated whines. Such spoiled little brats. I could surely give them something to whine about.

As they reluctantly open their books and begin to read I take my place behind the desk. Glancing over a classroom of perfectly uniformed students, my wandering attention stops on a girl with milky white skin and fiery red hair. I grin to myself.

I don’t even try to hide the fact that I’m staring at her and I’m sure I look like a hungry wolf eyeing up a soft little rabbit. 

My attention travels down to her stockings that come just below her knee and the length of her legs makes her pleated skirt seems obscenely short. I stare at the exposed skin of her thigh and my fingers are practically aching to touch her. That smooth, soft, young skin. 

She shifts in her seat and, to my delight, I get a quick peek at the white cotton panties she wears beneath her skirt. I quirk a brow, and can’t help but wonder what loveliness lies beneath that thin white fabric. She’s old enough to have pubic hair, but I doubt she’s old enough to rid herself of it—to shave, or wax, or whatever it is women do to please the fickle men in their lives. I absentmindedly lick my lips at the thought of the tawny curls between her legs. I wonder if her friends tease her and call her names like fire crotch. Girls can be so mean, but I could mend the humiliation of their words.

I could ask her to stay behind after the bell rings. I could tell her I found a problem with her homework. Whatever I needed to do to make her stay. I would lock the door for her sake only, as I relish in the thought of being caught with her. I wonder if she would dutifully do what I ask, or would I have to persuade her with an authoritative tone to my voice. If she knew what I was after, what I wanted—just a taste—she would surely go along with my plan.

Could I convince her to sit on my desk before me? To pull up her skirt and show me her panties? I would take in the sight of her—surely my cock would be getting hard by this point—and would let my hands glide over her stockings and up her pale thighs. Pushing her legs apart I would lean in and press my nose to the soft cotton and inhale her forbidden scent. 

I wonder if she’s touched herself before. If her hand has ever found its way between her legs to explore. Has she ever been so turn on that her panties have been soaking wet? Or is she completely oblivious to the pleasure she can feel? 

The thought of her inexperience makes me want her that much more.

I know I wouldn’t be able to wait, if I had her in front of me like that. I would pull her panties off, throwing them to the floor. I know I couldn’t be slow; I couldn’t wait for her to adjust to what was happening, I would need to taste her. 

I would push her legs further apart, and her breath would hitch as I lean in and press my mouth to her cunt. The trill of knowing I was the first to have her like this would cause me to be hasty. I would want to devour her. I would keep hold of her thighs and only use my mouth—my tongue licking between her soft lips, drinking in her sweetness. 

Her breath would quicken as I continue working my mouth over her virgin cunt, and a soft moan would fall from her lips when my tongue finds her clit—such a delicate little thing. Her hands would find my hair, fingers raking into the graying curls, and it would be a show of encouragement—to keep up what I’m doing, that my mouth is what she wants. 

It wouldn’t take long for her body to begin to tremble, for her breathing to quicken, and the moans to come louder. I would think how wicked it must look, my head between her thighs, fucking her with my tongue. 

And when she finally came I would savour every second of her taste, of the way her body stiffens and her thighs tremble, of the way my name—Mr. Baelish—would fall from her lips. 

It would be such of lovely, wicked thing. 

I’m brought back to my senses as the class bell rings and I watch her stand and gather her things. As she’s about to walk out the door I call out to her. 

“Sansa,” I say, and she stops in her tracks, blue eyes fixing on me. 

“Tell your parents I said hello,” I say.

“Of course I will,” she replies with a smile.

And I grin as she walks out the door.


	3. Heiress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the most historically inaccurate portrayal of an Heiress ever! I just wrote it as flouncy as possible!

I was the only child of a king, and heiress to the throne. And at thirteen years, before the first bleed of womanhood, my father had made plans for me to wed. I thought it too soon, as I still felt a child in every sense of the word. But I was not to contest my father’s wishes, for I was just a girl and he was king. 

When father had made the announcement, that I was in need of a suitor, men of wealth and nobility came to the castle from far off places to vie for my hand. A lavish affair was thrown in my honour, with lords and ladies dressed in their most beautiful fashions and adorned with their finest jewels. There was music and dancing, wine flowed like water, and the food exquisite--with my favourite being the trays of sweet cakes and pastries.

For most of the night I had been sat upon an ornate throne, plush velvet cushions beneath my bottom, as my potential suitors approached to kiss my hand and offer their name. I had smiled sweetly at each and every man—many of whom were old enough to be my father—all the while wondering nervously which of these men may be my future consort. 

I had thought to be done of all receptions until a svelte man approached to take my hand. He was immaculately dressed from head to foot with a double-breast waistcoat and an elegant cravat that was affixed to his collar with a mockingbird pin. As he greeted me with his name and pressed his lips to my hand, I noticed the many rings, which decorated his fingers. I did not know of this man’s wealth, but I would have guessed him the wealthiest of all and, perhaps, the most handsome as well. 

“It is but an honour to meet you, Princess Sansa.” He addressed me with regard, as no other man had the entire night, which caused a genuine smile to become my lips. 

“Would it be so bold of me as to ask your highness for a dance?” He proposed with a quirk of his mouth. 

I smiled at his request. “It would not be bold at all, as I have been waiting to be asked all eve,” I explained with a frustrated tone. 

“One as lovely as our Princess should never be kept waiting,” he said as a grin played across his face. 

Offering his hand to me I took it post haste as he lead me onto the gallery floor. He was a man of short stature, my height not far from his own, but it made dancing with him all that much easier. I loved to dance and twirl about the floor and it seemed he shared my sentiment as he was very knowledgeable about the proper footwork of each dance. 

“Would my Princess enjoy some fresh air?” He asked after a length on the dance floor. 

“Yes my Lord, shall we take a stroll through the gardens?” I suggested, as it was one of my most favourite places to be.

“The gardens it is,” he agreed and with my hand in his, he led me from the ballroom out into the gardens and the cool relief of the evening air. 

We had walked in silence for a length of time, the music from the ballroom growing faint, as we followed a path along the rose hedges. 

“Is my Princess anxious to be wed?” He wondered aloud as we strolled alongside one another. 

“My Lord would not be wrong to assume such a thing,” I conceded, admitting the truth to a man I had barely met, but whose company I would enjoy to keep. 

“Who do you suppose the King will choose for his daughter's hand?” He asked, but I had not a notion of whom my father had in mind. 

“I suppose whomever he deems worthy,” I said, for I knew my wishes would not be taken into account. 

Lord Baelish stopped then to harvest a single rose from the hedge, which he offered to me with a smile. I accepted it, bringing the crimson petals to my nose, and breathed in its delicate scent. 

“And if given the choice, whom would the Princess choose to wed?” 

I looked at him, his grey-green eyes peering back at me and I reflected on his question. I already knew my answer, for it was stood in front of me. 

“Perhaps she would choose you, my Lord,” I confessed and felt the warmth of a blush find my cheeks. I never knew myself to be so bold.

“Might I tell my Princess a secret?” He asked, his voice becoming hushed. 

“Please do,” I said, my tone lowering to match his, as I revelled in the thought of sharing something clandestine. 

He moved toward me then, his hands coming up to my shoulders, and he leaned in so that I could feel the warmth of his breath on my skin. I shivered at the feeling as he whispered to my ear. 

“I would have her choose me too.”


	4. Breathless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't sleep. So I wrote this.

**_Five_ **

She deft on her feet as she runs through the tall grass as fast as she possibly can. He's catching up to her, she knows, as his legs are much longer and he can run much faster. And she must be careful not to fall, for her mother would scold her if she ruined her new dress.

Her laughter is like a birdsong, sweet and melodic. And she shrieks when he finally catches her, his hands grabbing around her tiny waist.

Picking her up he twirls her round and round until she's breathless from laughing and just a little dizzy.

She wraps her arms around his neck, holding on tight as he carries her through the field of tall grass. Both tired from their innocent game.

“Do you love me Uncle Petyr?” She asks as she rests her head on his shoulder.

He smiles. “Of course I do.”

  
**_Eighteen_ **

His mouth touches her skin and her eyes close at the feeling. His touch is sure and careful and it elicits a fire within her that has yearned to burn for so long.

His deft mouth and skilled hands make her writhe with pleasure until she's breathless and gasping. And she feels just a little dizzy.

Once inside her, she pulls him close, their naked bodies pressing together, fingertips digging into yielding skin. She would stay this way forever, if she could.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, their mouths come together once again. And they're both tired from a game that is no longer innocent.

“Do you love me Petyr?” She asks in a whisper against his cheek.

He smiles. “Of course I do.”


	5. Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic is not for the morally sound. You have been warned!

There was nothing Sansa loved more than the chance to dress up, and the moment the invitation arrived in the letterbox, for the entire Stark household to attend her Uncle Petyr's birthday party, she had began planning exactly what she would wear.

Even as a girl of eleven years, she was meticulous about her appearance, and enjoyed being looked upon as proper, which was a stark difference to her younger sister Arya who cared much more about chasing after stray cats than about how she looked. Their mother often fought with her younger sister to wear dresses, and with the upcoming formal occasion things would be no different.

\---

When the day finally arrived Sansa dressed herself in a beautiful mint green dress, a dress with a thin layer of tulle and lace hemming that she had only worn once before, but felt an adult’s birthday party was the perfect time to wear it again. Her shoes were pearly white flats, and she adorned herself with a dainty gold necklace with an ‘S’ charm that her parents had gotten her for her own birthday a number of years ago. Pleased with how she looked, she smiled at herself in the mirror before hurrying downstairs to leave.

Her Aunt Lysa spared no expense for the party, and the estate was lavishly decorated. The guests were all so beautifully dressed as well, and Sansa felt as if she were attending a wedding rather than a simple birthday party.

“Such a pretty girl in a pretty dress,” she heard someone from behind her speak, and she blushed before turning around to see her Uncle Petyr. He was standing there in a perfectly fitted navy suit and matching tie, with a grin on his lips that make Sansa blush even further.

“Thank you,” she returned, looking away bashfully from her complimenter.

“Did you pick this dress yourself?”

“I did,” she said, instinctively smoothing her hands over the skirt to make sure she looked her best.

“It's perfect for the occasion,” he said, smiling.

Sansa smiled, practically beamed, in return, as she had put so much thought into her attire and was elated that someone noticed her efforts—especially her Uncle Petyr.

\---

With the party being a formal affair there was a three-course dinner and for dessert everyone got their own miniature cake to enjoy. The adults also got treated to wine, as there were a number of bottles of red and white at each table.

As the evening drew on it was easy to tell many had partook in the free beverage, as the room was filled with much more chatter and laughter than there had been before. And after the dinner had finished, the dining hall open up to the warmth of the outside evening where there was music and dancing.

Having drank too much sweet lemon tea, Sansa made her way back inside in search of a bathroom, where she did her business and then studied herself in the full length mirror to make sure she still looked presentable.

Outside the bathroom her Aunt Lysa’s fluffy grey cat crossed in front of her and, in her attempt to pet the thing, she followed it down the hallway and further away from the party. She thought a moment that she was being just like Arya, chasing after a cat, but in her defense at least it wasn't a stray.

Coming to the end of the hallway the cat sauntered into a room with its lights on and Sansa continued to follow. Though, she stopped just inside the door when she noticed a man sitting at a desk, and she quickly realized that it was her Uncle Petyr. 

On the desk before him were two lines of white power and, with a rolled up note held to his nose, he proceeded to sniff the entirety of one line, and then after a few seconds he sniffed the other as well. He sat up, sniffing, and rubbing at his nose, and when he finally turned in his leather business chair, about to stand, he saw Sansa standing there watching him.

He stared at her a moment, and Sansa was unsure of his gaze. She thought perhaps she was going to be in trouble for having left the party and walking in on him, but then the corner of his mouth pulled up into a grin.

“What...what was that powder?” She asked, her brows furrowing.

“Allergy medicine. I'm allergic to the cat,” he replied, sniffing his nose once again and swiveling slightly in his chair.

“Really?” She had never seen anyone take medicine that way before.

Petyr smiled. “Why would I lie?”

Sansa shrugged and stepped further into the room. “You're not at your party.”

“And neither are you,” he informed with a smirk. Though, it wasn't her party and her absence wouldn't be noticed like his would.

“Did you get all the gifts you wanted for your birthday?” She wondered aloud, as she looked at the man who was staring at her intently.

“Mmm...almost everything.”

“What didn't you get?” She asked, innocently, and she was standing near enough to him that she could see how large his pupils were, making his eyes look almost black.

He smiled at her then, leaning forward in his chair. “I thought maybe I would get a kiss from a pretty girl in green dress, but I didn't.”

She looked down at the soft green colour of her dress and felt her cheeks tinge pink. He was talking about her.

“Do you think maybe the pretty girl in the green dress was waiting for a few minutes alone with her uncle to give him that gift?” He questioned and Sansa felt her blush grow even deeper—surely her cheeks were completely red.

She felt it hard to look up at him then, as she knew his piercing eyes were on her. If she was to be completely honest, she had thought of such a thing before—a quick peck of her lips to his cheek—as she secretly harboured a small crush on the man she called her uncle.

He raised his brows at her as if waiting for an answer and then slowly she stepped closer to him. When she was merely a step away, their shoes almost touching, she hesitated a moment before leaning forward and pressing a quick kiss to Petyr's cheek.

He grinned and she was blushing once again. “Can I give you one?”

She smiled, feeling almost giddy from his question, never having imagined he would ask such a thing, and she turned her cheek toward him. But instead of feeling his lips touch her cheek she felt his fingers touch to her chin, turning her head toward him, so she was looking him in the eye.

“I thought maybe I could kiss you…here.” His finger grazed her lips.

Sansa looked at him, with her big blue eyes wide, and while she was unsure of his request, she felt a twist of conflicting excitement in her belly. But, after a moment, she let herself nod.

Petyr smirked then, his eyes dark, and as he leaned forward she let her eyes fall shut. She was expecting just a quick peck of his lips, but instead what she felt were his lips, wet and parted, as they connected with hers. It was not a quick peck at all and when his lips began to move against hers she pulled back, surprised by the contact.

Sansa took a tentative step backwards. “I should go back to the party,” she said, and when she took another step back, Petyr caught hold of her arm, keeping her from going any further.

“Or you could stay here…with me,” he said, raising a brow, not yet letting go of her arm.

He wanted her to stay with him on _his_ birthday. There was a room full of people that were there to see him, but he wanted to see her. She smiled at the realization.

He pulled her closer and leaned forward with a bit of a smile on his lips. “I want you to tell me a secret,” he whispered.

She felt her heart begin to race with how near he was to her again. She could smell the spicy musk of his cologne. “What kind of secret?”

He was so close that if he wanted to he could easily press his lips to hers again, but instead he leaned in so that his mouth was mere inches from her ear. “Tell me Sansa, do you ever touch yourself…between your legs?”

The blush crept back into her cheeks at such a query.

“Don’t be shy, I promise not to tell.”

Sansa thought about the question, thought about the times alone in her room when she’d let her hand sneak between her legs. Her nimble fingers would explore until she was breathy and her body tingled all over. “I have,” she admitted, though felt guilty in saying so, as if she knew touching herself was something she shouldn’t have done.

His nose grazed against her cheek. “Mmm…did you like it?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice so low it was barely audible.

Then suddenly, Petyr’s hand gently grasped her inner thigh and goosebumps exploded over her skin. She knew that she should step back away from his touch, that her uncle should not have his hand there, but she couldn’t make herself move. His breath was hot against her ear, and she fidgeted when his hand came up to press between her legs.

“Uncle Petyr you—“

“Shh…it will be our secret,” he spoke into her ear, as he began to stroke his fingers over the cotton of her panties.

Standing perfectly still, she couldn’t help the confused-excited feeling that rose up inside her, as his fingers moved slowly over the thin cotton fabric. She knew it was shameful to touch herself in such a way, so surely it must have been more shameful that she allowed her uncle to do the same—and even more so that the touch thrilled her like it did.

He pushed her panties to the side and felt the perfectly smooth, warm skin that lay beneath. And she gasped when he slid a single digit between the slightly wet lips. “Such a soft little cunt,” he whispered, his lips skimming across the skin just below her ear.

Her breathing quickened as his finger discovered her, and she couldn’t help but whimper when he stroked over a sensitive point that made the entire area between her legs tingle with pleasure. “The sweet spot,” he said, and Sansa shivered at the sound of his voice, dark and husky as he spoke to her.

“Sansa, where are you?” She startled as she heard the voice of her younger sister Arya, coming from down the hall.

“Remember, our secret,” Petyr said, righting her underwear, his touch suddenly gone.

Sansa nodded quickly, her heart beating wildly in her chest, as the thought of only a moment longer and she may have been caught with her uncle’s hand beneath her dress.

Just as she was about to turn and leave, she watched Petyr, with wide disbelieving eyes, as he brought the finger, he had touched her with, to his mouth and licked the wetness from it.

Petyr smirked.

And Sansa hurried from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt List:
> 
> cemetery (complete)  
> taste (complete)  
> heir (complete)  
> breathless (complete)  
> birthday (complete)  
> wicked  
> flexible  
> secret  
> chocolate  
> beads  
> darkness  
> creative  
> fire  
> snow  
> pregnant/pregnancy  
> leather  
> chess  
> old
> 
> I'm not taking any more prompt requests for now!


End file.
